Fighting Our Way (Broken Tracks 2)

Skirting my gaze away from him, I shake my head. “They’re not coming with us. They wanted to give us some space.” I keep in the actual reason behind them not being here. It was only this morning my dad tried to persuade me yet again to go home with them, but when I told him no for the tenth time, he finally got it and said he couldn’t be here while I moved in with Nate. “They said they’d come over before their flight tomorrow,” I continue before finally flicking my gaze back at him.

I can tell he wants to say something but chooses not to, nodding slightly and motioning for me to carry on out of the room.

Pushing out into the hallway, I hear Nate’s footsteps behind me as he follows me out. Changing the subject, I say, “I can’t wait to smell the fresh air.”

“Plenty of that at our place,” he says casually, only the words have my stomach doing somersaults. Our place, the words roll off his tongue with such ease, and when I look up at him, I see he meant it. A smile drifts slowly on my face, my nerves at leaving starting to dissipate as we pass the nurses’ station and roll toward the elevator.

Nate presses the button and we both wait silently, his last words still batting around in my head. The idea of sharing a space fills me with an excited kind of apprehension. For the last five months we’ve seen each other practically every day. He’s been there, sitting beside me every step of the way and filling the silence I constantly greeted him with.

The elevator doors opening bring me out of my head and I push forward, turning the chair around when I’m inside to face the door. I see Nate’s arm jerk, almost as if he wants to help, but he thinks better of it as he comes to stand beside me, pressing the button for the ground floor.

“Did you have to have much done to your—our place?”

He shrugs. “A few things. I’ll give you a tour when we get there.”

“Okay,” I reply, watching as the numbers above the door slowly count down before the door whooshes open. It’s not until we’re outside I come to an abrupt stop on the sidewalk.

Nate bends down in front of me, hand grazing mine softly. “What’s wrong?”

“I erm…” My gaze scans the small parking lot in front of the hospital, searching for his car. “I’ve never…” Running my shaky hand over my hair, I flick my gaze up to his before looking away, stuttering, “What car did you bring?”

With a gentle hand under my chin, he turns my head to face him. “We’re going to do this together, okay? Stop worrying, I have it covered.”

I grit my teeth, wanting to tell him I don’t want him to have it covered, that I want to be able to do this myself. He tilts his head for me to follow him and I push my hands on the wheels, shoving back the frustrated tears springing to life.

The happy feeling I had at getting out of this place slowly wanes, and when he comes to a stop in front of his SUV, he widens his stance, lifting his lips with a smile he only gives me.

“What now?” I ask, willing my voice not to break.

“Now I get to be romantic.” He opens up the passenger side door before walking back over to me. “Put your arms around my neck, that’s it.” My nostrils flare and I pull in a calming breath. However much I want to be able to do this on my own, I know right now it’s not possible. He scoops under my legs and lifts me like I don’t weigh anything, clutching me to his chest.

He steps forward, gently placing me on the passenger seat of his SUV, letting me go and adjusting my legs for me in the position they won’t go in without using your hands.

“Thanks,” I murmur, turning my head, coming only centimeters from his face.

“It’s my pleasure,” he whispers before I feel the soft press of a kiss against my forehead. “I’ll just put your chair in the back.”

I nod as he closes the door, watching him wheel the chair to the back and open the trunk. My eyes stay fixed to the rearview mirror as he studies the chair for several seconds, leaning down and out of my view.

I can’t help but chuckle when he stands back up to his full height, hands on his hips as he stares at the chair, frustration etching across his features.

“Lever on the right!” I shout back to him, and when he lifts his head, looking into the car, he raises a brow at me.

“I knew that.”

“Sure you did.” I pinch my lips together as he leans down again, pushing on the lever. The chair collapses into its folded-up position before he lifts it with ease and places it in the trunk.

Biting down on my bottom lip as he gets into the driver's side, I keep my eyes forward, holding back the laughter wanting to escape.

“Don’t you dare.” His words come out between a deep chuckle.

“What?” I ask innocently, finally giving up my fight with the laughter and letting it ring loud in the confines of the car.

He shakes his head at me, turning on the engine. “Guess I can add wheelchair wrestling onto my resume.”

Pulling out of the space, I watch his profile, trying to be as serious as possible when I say, “I think it’d really round it out for you. ‘Nathan Cole: Lawyer and expert wheelchair wrestler.’ It has quite a ring to it.”

The carefree spin on the conversation has my mood spiking and I watch as he laughs along with me. “Lawyer, expert wheelchair wrestler, and personal chef to Amelia Rivers.”